Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  Again Father Thomas hesitated. He’d had a few strange dreams himself in which he had seen a country united, and peace and prosperity coming to the land. But in that picture, a dark spot blurred Edenby, as if it must endure some greater trial before finding peace.

  “Peace is not achieved easily,” he said, then added optimistically, “but you heard the King’s messengers. Richard’s forces far outnumber those of Henry Tudor!”

  “Umm,” Genevieve murmured, standing. “The last we heard from the traveling minstrel was that they all seem to be amassing at a town called Market Bosworth. Perhaps we shall hear soon that all is well.”

  “Perhaps,” Father Thomas agreed.

  Genevieve smiled impishly The fresh sea air seemed to have cleared her soul of nightmare images. “Turn your back, will you, Father? I’d not have your sense of propriety upset. But I’ve the urge to take off my gown and swim again.”

  “My lady—”

  “Please?” She laughed, and he was glad of her laugh. “Await me by the cliff—I shan’t be long, I promise!”

  Father Thomas did as she bade him. And Genevieve quickly forgot his presence. Leaving her velvet gown upon the sand, she took to the water in her linen shift, delighting in the chill, diving deep to enjoy the sense of freedom. She had not felt so young and easy in what seemed like forever; for these few minutes she could forget everything again. It was as if the sea could cleanse her of memories and the blood upon her hands.

  When she emerged at last she felt lighthearted and very confident. Her hair was a soaking mantle around her, but she rejoined Father Thomas with a steady smile.

  “Do you know, Father, I feel much better.”

  “Behaving like a fish is not truly considered proper behavior for a lady of your standing, Genevieve.”

  “But I had such a wonderful time.”

  “Then I am glad. A husband, though, might not approve.”

  She sobered suddenly, shuddering slightly. Again, Father Thomas was sorry he had spoken

  “I believe, Father, that I prove myself daily. I do not need a husband.”

  “You are hurt now, you feel Axel’s loss keenly But you must marry one day, you know that.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Perhaps I shall not. I have fought too hard and lost too much. Axel was rare. Husbands think to rule a wife’s land—and the wife. I cannot be ruled, Father. I have come too far.”

  Father Thomas shivered slightly. She meant what she said. The dark pall that had blurred Edenby in his dreams seemed to fall about him now. He looked up at the cliffs and shivered again. He felt a sense of foreboding.

  But Genevieve was hurrying on ahead of him, smiling again. “I think I shall order a holiday,” she called back to him. “Surely we can find an appropriate saint’s day, wouldn’t you agree, Father? The people have worked hard. It isn’t May, but we’ll have a Maypole! We’ll roast lamb and beef and dance beneath the moon!”

  It was a good plan, Father Thomas admitted to himself. Genevieve had earned the loyalty of her tenants. To them she was young, and beautiful, and heroic. But she also needed the celebration herself. Something to appease her spirit and allow her to laugh again.

  “Aye—we can find an appropriate saint,” he agreed dryly. But even as spoke the sun seemed to fade. Storm clouds were encroaching upon them from the west.

  From the area of Market Bosworth, Father Thomas thought a little dismally. What was happening out on that battlefield now?

  * * *

  On the night of August twenty-first, Tristan silently walked beneath the stars and stared out—at the hundreds and hundreds of campfires that could be seen blazing from all the many troops encircling Ambien Hill, awaiting the morrow.

  Henry’s scouts had been out all day. Tristan knew almost as much about the enemy’s movements as their own. King Richard had ridden that morning from Leicester, trumpets resounding, his men-at-arms, archers, and cavalry before him. Even in his armor he was a slight figure. He wore a golden crown so that both his own men—and the enemy—would know him on sight.

  Tristan stared at the campfires, then bowed his head. Richard was not without courage. Not without valor, not without his fine virtues. Yet too many sins lay upon his soul. His climb to power had been too careless.

  Tomorrow, Tristan thought, God would choose the future king.

  He fell to his knees, trying to pray. It seemed to him as if he had somehow forgotten how. The night seemed like pitch except for the campfires. Like my life, he thought—dark. But then he discovered that he was praying.

  Let me live, Father. Let us be victorious. I do not fear death, but for all that has befallen me I fear my soul will never know peace until I have found vengeance. I do not seek to slay her in return. Only to take what was promised.

  Was it wrong to pray for vengeance? Perhaps not. Perhaps God, too, was a warrior.

  Tristan stood and stared up to heaven, grinning a little crookedly. “Tomorrow,” he whispered softly to the night breeze, “will tell.”

  He started back to his tent. Sentries saluted and he saluted in return. Not far away Richard probably surveyed his own camp, as Henry Tudor was doing now.

  Tristan slipped into his tent. He should have been thinking of battle, of strategy.

  Not two feet away Jon was already asleep. Tristan laced his fingers behind his head and stared into the darkness of his tent. If he opened his eyes or if he closed them, he saw her. He saw her in white, with mist around her; saw her hair, shimmering gold, saw her eyes, shimmering silver. The curl of her smile, the passion when she pleaded, when he had found pity . . .

  “If I live tomorrow, Genevieve of Edenby, I swear I shall have that castle—and you—or die in the trying,” he whispered out loud. And then he smiled. Heat, desire, and fever: to be fulfilled, and then purged, cleansed. Vengeance was perhaps a good thing. It had given him the will to live; now it would give him the will to triumph.

  The battle would begin with the dawn.

  * * *

  August twenty-second, Year of our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Eighty Five . . .

  The day had become gray, with storm clouds joining the mass of swirling black gunpowder that hovered near the ground. The heat was so great that Tristan had taken off his helmet. Beads of grime formed on his forehead, and filth blackened his face.

  Long ago he had tossed away his pistol, finding it useless in the melee. He fought with his sword, on horseback, blindly slashing down those who sought to skewer or dismount him.

  The tremendous odds hadn’t dampened the heart of the Lancastrian forces. They fought with greater ferocity—for if they lost, they would be demolished.

  Tristan fought near Henry Tudor, with a guard around their would-be king. Henry Tudor was no coward; he was a young man not yet thirty years—a man willing to fight for the Crown he sought. But his true talents lay in wit and strategy. He was of medium build and medium height, shrewd and determined, but not as powerful as many of those who would find great pride and glory in bringing him down.

  Even as Tristan thought this, a great burly Yorkist broke through their ranks, wielding a pike. Tristan spurred his mount; the heavy beast reared and plunged toward this new threat. Tristan raised his sword and brought it down with all his strength against the pike, which snapped before the steel tip could reach Henry Tudor. The giant Yorkist roared out his rage and charged Tristan, unbalancing him from his mount. Against the cries and shouting and running footsteps and the distant explosions of cannon and gunfire, they rolled together in the field that had become nothing but muck and blood amid the bodies of the dead and wounded, men and horses.

  The Yorkist was on top of Tristan, striking at him with knotted fists. Tristan twisted, sending the Yorkist toppling forward, and Tristan used his momentum to rise. The shaft of the pike lay by him. He grabbed it hastily and brought it down upon the back of his enemy with such force that it snapped again. The Yorkist started to rise to his knees, but let out a grunt and fell forward into the mud.


  Dazed, Tristan turned to find his mount and his sword before he could be attacked again. Henry was there, mounted, and leading Tristan’s horse.

  “You saved my life,” Henry said briefly. Tristan accepted the reins of his horse without reply; Henry Tudor did not waste words, so he offered no denial. He glanced at the slim face of the man to whom he had given his allegiance and nodded. “We’ve still a battle to win,” he replied.

  How much longer could it go on? Tristan wondered. The sky grew darker and darker, and the dead were everywhere. White and red roses lay trampled in the filth. And still it went on.

  In the end the battle was decided by Lord Stanley and his son—and his three thousand men. They were, for all intents and purposes, aligned with Richard. Yet when Richard charged upon his white horse for Henry, the Stanleys cast their powerful lot with Henry Tudor.

  Tristan knew that Henry had met and negotiated with Sir William Stanley. But from that meeting Henry had learned that he would be supported only if he proved he could win the battle. Until the turning point the Stanleys had appeared to be with Richard. Clearly they meant to cast their lot with the winner, and in their movement then they did decide it all.

  Richard was trapped—crushed between Henry’s troops and the massive wing created by Lord Stanley’s men. But he fought bravely until the end.

  Finally Tristan heard a cry go up.

  “He’s dead! The King is dead! Richard III is slain—they’ve seen him, the corpse stripped naked by our own and lain over his horse that all may see him!”

  “The Yorkists are dispersing—and scattering! They are retreating from the field! The battle is won!”

  And it was true, Tristan saw. Like a wave, the enemy was retreating. By narrowing his eyes, he could see a horse running wild, with a naked body cast over it.

  A foot soldier ran forward, bearing the golden crown that Richard had worn. He fell to his knees before Henry, offering it up.

  And Henry began to laugh, deeply, heartily. “The battle, my friends, is indeed won!”

  “Your Highness!” the foot soldier called out reverently.

  And Henry sobered, his pinched features now severe. “I am not King—not until I am crowned so! But that, loyal servants, will be soon. To you all, my gratitude. Promised awards are yours, and in turn I will have the promise that we will build this country and make her rich beyond imagination!” He swiveled quickly in his saddle. “Sir Mark, you will ride for Elizabeth of York. She will be brought to London.”

  “You’ll marry her, Sire, and the title will be secure—” Sir Mark began, but Henry Tudor quickly cut him off.

  “I marry for no title! All here know and history will tell that I negotiated for Elizabeth’s hand long before this day! My title will be my own! Not until I am duly King will she be my bride. I marry for peace in this realm. The Houses of Lancaster and York will be united under one name. Tudor!”

  Henry cast Tristan a glance. “Well, Lord Tristan, what would you have? Do you come to London with me? To shake battle from your blood and bones in splendor? Come, speak to me, man, for I always pay my debts; and I owe you my life.”

  Tristan shook his head, smiling dryly. “I would return to Edenby and take the castle, Sir. I’ve a personal matter to clear there. If you would truly reward me, give over the castle—and its lady—to my keeping.”

  Henry Tudor tightened his hold on his mount as the animal belatedly sought to fight its bit. He raised a brow. “As you wish. Would you take more men and arms?”

  “Nay—only those men who are mine. I believe I know how to take the castle with as little bloodshed as possible.”

  Henry watched him for a moment. “I mean what I say, Tristan, that I want peace. We were at war; there are nobles I will strip of power and some who will reside in the Tower. I dare say that some will eventually lose their heads, for if they oppose me now it will be treason. But I intend to extract no great revenge; only those who refuse to accept my claim need fear for their lives. Edenby is yours—but it has always been a prosperous place, and I want those taxes. Warfare has bled this country. See that you take the place in my name. I trust you to follow my policy.”

  “The Lady of Edenby—” Tristan began, but Henry interrupted him impatiently.

  “The woman is your concern. Do with her what you will.”

  Tristan smiled slowly. “I’d like that as a promise, Your Grace.”

  “Why do you press me so?” Henry inquired irritably.

  “Because she is young and very beautiful and of unimpeachable family line. Should another make a claim, I would have you remember that she is not to be a reward or a pawn in a marriage game. No matter what I choose to do, she is mine.”

  “The promise is yours!” Henry bellowed. “Good God! This over a woman! Leave me now for your Edenby. I’ve other requests to fill and the business of a kingdom to claim!”

  Henry spun his mount about and rode off.

  Tristan just sat still for a moment. It felt as if the sun had broken through the clouds, though it surely had not. Elation filled him like a rampaging fire, and he threw back his head to shout out his joy and triumph.

  Jon, battle-grimed and weary, made his way toward his friend. He frowned as he gazed at Tristan. “Victory is one thing; you sound like a cock crowing in the morning.”

  Tristan laughed, but then his features tensed. “We’ve permission to take Edenby. With royal warning not to mar its value, but . . . with free leave and blessing!”

  Jon smiled, too. A sweet breeze swept around them, cool with the promise of rain. It filled Tristan with a thunder of elation. After all that had been done to him, and all that he had fought for, resolution was near. He turned to Jon, his dark eyes glittering with a purposeful fire.

  “Gather our forces—we ride hard tonight. We will waste no time.”

  The breeze was indeed sweet. As sweet as the long-awaited promise of revenge about to come their way.

  * * *

  Genevieve was in the counting room, looking at Tamkin’s accounting of the rents. The paper was blurting before her a bit. They had celebrated their summer “May Day” the night before, and she had freely imbibed ale with the peasants, danced with them about their pole—and had altogether a far too enjoyable time to meet the morning with anything other than a headache.

  She was fiercely startled when the door suddenly banged open and Sir Humphrey entered, white-faced and shaking. “It’s over! The battle at Bosworth Field is over. Richard was killed.”

  “What?” she cried out with astonished alarm.

  He nodded, swallowing sickly. “Henry Tudor goes to London, where he will be crowned King.”

  “How can you know?” Genevieve queried, fighting the nausea that rose in her. It couldn’t be! Richard’s forces had well outnumbered the invaders! How could it be?

  “One of our men stumbled back to the gates. He is ill and wounded, but he says there is no doubt. He saw King Richard’s body himself. The Yorkist forces were badly beaten and scattered. Henry Tudor is the victor.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Genevieve groaned, leaning an arm across the desk and resting her head upon it. “Perhaps . . . perhaps it will mean nothing. There are still others who could make a bid for the Crown. Perhaps this Tudor upstart will also be killed! ”

  She hadn’t seen Edwyna enter the room, but now her aunt spoke, running to the desk to take Genevieve’s hand and implore her.

  “Genevieve! We must give it up now! We must! If we do not accept this man as King, he will send others out to crush us! Genevieve! Please, think of us all! If you go to this man, swear your loyalty—lay down our arms and our crest of white roses—he will perhaps let us be!”

  Genevieve sat back in the chair, staring at Edwyna’s huge, moist blue eyes. She gazed past her aunt to Sir Humphrey.

  “Well?” she inquired wearily.

  He shook his head unhappily. “I see no other way, my lady. Edwyna is right—we must swear our loyalty to this new King. And pray that he does not intend to
punish the countryside.”

  “Please, Genevieve!” Edwyna implored once more.

  Her head began to pound viciously. She pressed her temples between her thumbs and forefingers.

  “Genevieve!”

  “You are right. I must go to plead the favor of this upstart King!” She wished the pain would leave her head so that she could think. “If he does indeed become King, half of us could wind up in the Tower or on the block. I will go to him and swear our loyalty.”

  Edwyna was already on her feet. “I’ll pack for you. He is a young King. If you wear your jewels and your finest gowns, he will not be able to refuse you.”

  “I hear that he is sly, shrewd, and cold—and far more concerned with pounds and shillings than he is with women. But do what you like.” She paused again and added bitterly, “If I am to beg, I may as well be regally dressed for the occasion.”

  Edwyna was already gone. Genevieve rose wearily and gazed at Sir Humphrey. “You, sir, will accompany me. And Mary must come along. And an escort of five—”

  “Ten, if I may suggest it, Lady Genevieve,” Sir Humphrey interrupted her. “The countryside will be crawling with soldiers beaten and in need. We would be prime picking for attack.”

  “Ten then,” Genevieve said. She sighed. “We might as well leave this afternoon; I’d have this over as soon as is possible.”

  Less than two hours later, Genevieve and her escorts were ready to ride out of the gates.

  Father Thomas and Edwyna stood by to raise the stirrup cup and wish them a good journey.

  “When our men return—those who do—care for them all. They were loyal to Edenby, and to the House of York.”

  Father Thomas nodded gravely.

  “And if Sir Guy returns, see that he is made comfortable in the castle.”

  “I will,” Edwyna murmured anxiously. Little Anne was at her mother’s side, wide-eyed at the proceedings. Genevieve found herself leaping from her saddle to hug her little cousin.

  “Annie—I’m going to the City! Be good now, and I will bring you back a lovely doll or a puppet! Would you like that?”

  “A puppet?”